The Ghostly Girl
by Cececat
Summary: What if the Phantom was a woman? Here's the story of a female opera ghost, based solely on the original novel. My first PotO fanfic and my 75th fanfic in general. The other characters are still the gender they are in the original and the Ghost herself doesn't actually understand her feelings for Christine. I'm trying to be unique here! (Please Read and Review!)
1. Hello

**Disclaimer: Since this book is public domain, everyone owns to some extent it. Though I still credit good ol' Leroux with the basic idea of it all.**

 **A/N: Here's my first story based on _The Phantom of the Opera._ It's mostly inspired by the original novel. I'm basically trying to re-write the novel as if the Opera Ghost wrote it... and that 'he' was a 'she'. If somebody likes the premise and wants to help improve it, I would be honored to have them be a beta. **

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People often introduce themselves with some basic trivia about themselves. I, though usually one to defy convention, shall do just that. What can one learn from a few simple facts? Many interesting things! Oh dear, I appear to be rambling…

Well, then. Here we go:

I am known to one and all as The Opera Ghost.

I take great pride in my unique maniacal laugh.

My favorite game is most definitely 'Annoy-The-Managers'

Ah _ha_! That's where our little story begins. On the day old Mr. Poligny retired. His _two_ replacements made the game especially fun, because (as the old saying goes) 'the more the merrier'! Even the weather seemed on my side the night I first set eyes on them.

Not that thunderstorms aren't easy to come by…

Kind old Mr. Poligny notified me of his retirement months in advance. He even sent me an invitation to the going-away party. Though I planned to attend, I officially declined. Being a still living 'ghost' is _much_ harder work than it sounds.

I woke up extra early that evening.

One of the few qualities I share with nasty creatures called hu- _that is_ , qualities I share with other people- is a love for dressing up fashionably. Even though people rarely see me I still take great pride in my appearance.

Whenever a ballerina catches the slightest glimpse of me, she immediately runs off to tell her fellow performers. It's really quite fun to spy on their conversations.

I planned to make at least one visible appearance that night, and dressed accordingly.

Instead of my everyday Sweeping Black Cloak, I wore my special occasion one. It's got lovely dark red trim around the edges, while my usual cape is plain black. I bought this 'special occasion cloak' with some of the money Mr. Poligny paid me. So, however indirectly, he bought it for me. Wearing it to his party seemed a kind tribute.

And the mask I wore that night was also red. Pseudo-Oriental red silk, decorated with beads that fondly reminded me of drops of blood.

Red is my favorite color. It's the prettiest color you see when somebody's skull goes 'splat!' on the pavement. The first happy memory in my pathetic excuse for a childhood involved the color.

As I stared at myself in the mirror, I smiled at how well the mask hid my face. With strange sadness I wondered what my smile looks like. Only the eyes were visible beneath one of my masks. Because of my hideous deformity, I had a fear of seeing my own face.

Throughout my entire life, only one person didn't flee at the sight of it.

Forcing that foolish thought from my mind, I blew out nearly all the candles in my apartment. The only flame I kept lit was in a lantern I carried with me. One of the few things I truly fear is my house burning down.

Humming a half-forgotten song, I left my apartment. While some people have a porch outside their front door, I have a dock.

I live, as you've probably gathered, beneath the opera house. Part of the sewers system runs through the cellars. More than ten years ago, I decided that building a house on the shore of the Sewer-Lake sounded like a pretty neat idea. Since then I've realized that only _I_ think that sort of thing. Ah, well. You can't win 'em all.

Though having a sewer where you front yard should be is considered eccentric, it still keeps away any unwanted visitors.

It's very tedious work, dragging a proper-sized rowboat into the deepest cellars of the opera house (I would know). Very few people know I exist and _none_ of them have the patience for such a feat.

 _And_ I can say 'I own a lovely little lake-side cottage' without actually lying.

Ah, well… back to the story of the party. I got into my nice little rowboat and rowed across the nasty smelling river. Once I'd crossed it, I attached the rowboat to _another_ dock with a nice little lock system I'd made myself. Only I know the right number of clockwise turns and clicks, so nobody can steal my rowboat while I'm away.

I quite like inventing things.

Through the secret hallways I went, resisting the urge to hum a cheerful tune. I liked to appear out of seemingly nowhere. On the bottom of my shoes I'd tied felt over-shoes, to muffle the 'clickety-clackety' sound the soles made against the floor. It makes sneaking up on people much easier, you know.

Soon enough I arrived at a doorway. Through it laid a nice little staircase that leads to another secret hall. Every time I see one of my winding metal staircases, I mentally commend myself for such a clever design. Those things hardly take any space _and_ they're quite sturdy!

I strolled through the little passageway, still carrying my nice little lantern. Only I know about the secret hallways, so there's no reason to add any wall-lamps. After a few minutes of walking I found the proper door. That hallway had many doors, each marked with a dot of colorful paint and a number. Only I know the meanings of the colors, a clever code that might take hours upon hours to explain.

Before I opened the door, I checked all my little traps. I've invented all sorts of entertaining ways to make sure I know if any nasty tricksters managed to get into _my_ secret passageways. Thankfully, none of the traps were triggered in the last day (I'd checked yesterday morning on my way to bed).

And so, with a cheery grin, I opened the door and walked up the spiral staircase. I could hear the faint sound of leisurely conversation through the trap door above me. That meant everyone was still sober.

Oh, dear.

Appearing to clear-headed people wasn't as fun as showing up when half of them are too smashed to walk properly. My pocket-watch said 9:30. That's not too early in the evening.

 _I'll just wait here until ten_ , I thought to myself as I sat down at the top of my staircase.

Setting my lamp down, I admired the little room. It had a secret window (that looks like a pretty little painting from the outside). I could switch my own mask-face with that of the picture girl, if I pleased. Such a thing made people jump sometimes.

Little games like… they're fun as can be!

But that evening I waited quietly. 'Tickety-tockety' went my pocket-watchie as minutes went by and by… ten o'clock went and came. A few people were giggling drunkenly, but most of the people sounded too clear-minded.

Oh, the sadness of this. _At 10:45 nobody will be thinking- or walking- straightly_ , said I to myself! Waiting for the game to begin filled my sweet little heart with gloom.

So, I sang a song to cheer myself up.

The sound of the chatter in the party room died away at the harmonious sound of my contralto voice. My lovely voice is the _one_ thing about me that doesn't appall _every single_ worthless living thing.

I've got the face of the most hideous demon and the voice of the sweetest angel…

Oh dear. The distraction of my singing probably stopped the flowing of intoxicating drinks (both stronger brandies and weaker wines). I ended the song halfway through it's many lovely verses. After a moment, the sound of chitchatting voices returned.

My Ugly-Face smiled darkly beneath my Pretty-Face. Many years of living in the opera house caused a strange interest in symbolism. The Ugly-Face symbolizes what I'm thinking inside my kindly heart, while my Pretty-Face gives away nothing.

This 'system' helps me hide tears from anyone who sees me.

Suddenly, I noticed that the sound of low conversation had grown into the wildness of drunken singing and giggly innuendoes of drunkenness. Time for the _fun_!

Secretly beaming with glee, I untied the felt mufflers wrapped around my shoes. The ominous click-clack of shoes always made 'em jump!

I ran through a mental checklist: now-noisy shoes ready, sweeping cape secured, hair tied back, hat on right, all my keys properly secured on my necklace, dress spotless (bloodstains aren't always stylish), mask carefully adjusted to hide face _completely_ … Everything ready!

'Twas _show time_.

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	2. New Managers

**Disclaimer: Since this book is public domain, everyone owns to some extent it. Though I still credit good ol' Leroux with the basic idea of it all.**

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With extreme care, I opened a little hatch in the wall. Thanks to my bright lantern I found the little hiding place where I kept a fan. I'd permanently borrowed it from a random little ballet brat. Not only did I need it, borrowing things in such a manner keeps up my reputation as a proper phantom.

 _Anyway_ … I took the fan out of its secret shelf. I managed to do this with only a few slight 'clicks' of my heels! Then, I used the fan (a pretty, oriental-style thing) to make a few candles flicker. The wild laughter stopped, and an eerie silence engulfed the room.

" _It's the ghost!_ " hissed a (probably) female voice. It's hard to tell when they're all so scared that they 'squeak' instead of 'speak'.

I laughed my usual maniacal laugh. "Of _course_ it's me, you lot of half-wits!"

The voice that spoke next belonged to M. Poligny. "Um, Ghost? Why are you here? No offense meant, but your response to-"

"I changed my mind. Of course, I only wished to drop by for a moment or two. Surely you think a respectable person such as I might miss the going-away party of a similarly respectable acquaintance?'

"N-n-no!" he replied nervously.

From his tone of voice, I decided my appearance must've sobered him more than all the coffee in the world. A giggle assured me that such a thing hadn't happened to at least a _few_ partygoers.

Probably some of the ballerinas, I decided. Those girls're all so damn skinny that one sip of anything stronger than beer makes them swear like sailors and stumble like… other intoxicated people?

Ah, I'm no good with metaphors.

"And, my dear Mr. Poligny, I _do_ wish to be introduced to our new managers. You mentioned them in a letter or two, I believe?" 

He (or someone) cleared his throat. "Er, yes. M. Armand Moncharmin and M. Firmin Richard."

I looked through a secret little hole in the wall, quickly spotting two strangers. Luckily, they looked nothing like each other. It's easier to tell people like that apart if there's a striking visual difference. One of them was rather fat, and appeared to be the sort of man who mistakenly believes that combing what's left of you hair over the bald spots _actually_ makes you look less bald. He held one of those silly bowler hats in his hand, fiddling nervously and looking around with piggy eyes. The other was the tall, thin sort of man wearing a strange bow tie. He actually _had_ hair, which stuck out at odd angles. Unlike his business partner, he looked quite relaxed… probably thanks to that glass of something alcoholic he held in his spidery hands.

"I'mmm Armandddd," the taller one slurred cheerfully.

"And my name is Firmin Richard," said the chubby man, looking around the room nervously.

When I next spoke, I addressed them using a funny little system of pipes. Not only does it make my voice echo wonderfully, it also makes the origin of the sounds harder to pinpoint.

"Ah, lovely! Now that we're introduced I should make it clear that I'll be regularly corresponding with both of you via a funny little postal network I run. As fellow businessmen, I'm sure you understand the importance of official documents. I'll have some things sent over tomorrow."

"We'll be sure to review them," said Firmin (I'd decided to call them by their Christian names, though I was no Christian) .

"thhhat sounds _loverleeeeee_!" added Armand, toppling over gleefully.

After a moment of somber silence, Mr. Poligny cleared his throat. "Er, Mr. Ghost? Will that be all for now?"

I laughed menacingly. "Yes, yes. I don't wish to intrude on your celebrating much longer. I'm sure you'll be quite happy in the little countryside house you'll be retiring to. It sounded ever so nice in your letters. I bid you a fond farewell!"

He chuckled nervously. "Goodbye, Mr. Ghost."

As a suitably dramatic exit, I briefly opened a secret little window and winked at the new managers. They probably only saw the glittering mask I wore. With a swish of my cape I disappeared from view. I slowly stalked away, making sure the clickety-clackety of my heels echoed properly.

Once I stood on the top step of my lovely metal staircase, however, I donned the felt overshoes. Nobody needed to hear my footsteps now…

With a cheerful grin on my Ugly-Face, I made my merry way back to my house. I couldn't _wait_ to begun my first letter to the New Managers. So, when I'd finally gotten home, I sat down at my desk and began writing.

I suddenly remembered an old bit of trivia I'd read. In one of those daft old dead languages, 'Vivien' (or some variant of it) means 'alive'. As in, _not dead_!

 _Dear Mr. Vivien Armand and Mr. Narcisse 'Sissy' Firmin,_

 _I must admit that, upon first hearing both your hilariously girly names, believed you to be women. Most sincerely do I thank you for bringing a nice bit of humor into my day._

 _Another fascinating fact about names: did you know that 'Vivien' means 'alive'?_

 _Amusingly, 'alive' is a state of being that can be remedied in a number of wonderfully creative ways. I might have a bit of 'fun' with that if you refuse to pay me my monthly salary of 1868 Euros. Even if your new nickname_ doesn't _reflect your personality, 'Mr. Sissy', I hope you obey my simple commands._

 _I have no formal mailing address, so you must hand over any letters to Mrs. Giry. She volunteers here as an usher._

 _Yours truly,_

 _The Opera Ghost_

 _PS: as a specter living in place so wildly dramatic as an opera house, I am practically required to write maniacal laughter… "HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!"_

How lovely! I retrieved an envelope from on of the desk's drawers, and then carefully put the letter inside.

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	3. Flashback: The First Masquerade

**Disclaimer: Since this book is public domain, everyone owns to some extent it. Though I still credit good ol' Leroux with the basic idea of it all.**

 **A/N: I've gotten a bit over-excited and decided to write about her childhood. These flashbacks will be shorter than normal chapters, I think.**

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 _My father was a cruel aristocrat known as Lord Malvolio, my mother (Lady Lavinia) a madwoman stupidly devoted to a fictional creature called 'God'. Neither parent cared about me. I can't remember what either of them looks like, for they tried to forget I existed._

 _Sometimes, when feeling glum, I'd remind myself that things would be thousands of times worse if a mysterious soothsayer had told them a tragic prophecy. I think they would've tried to kill me right away. Anything to avoid scandal, that's their (admittedly stupid) motto._

 _I lived out my first ten years in a dark area of the servant's quarters, so everyone could pretend I'd died in my first few months of life. It turns out having a child with a deformed face isn't a good thing in some social circles._

 _Interestingly, I had two_ beautiful _older sisters for everyone to fawn over and spoil. I'd even met them. Apparently my parents were clever enough to realize that ugliness isn't a contagious illness. On days when their nanny was tired of entertaining the brats, she'd send them into the servant's quarters to tease me._

 _The only person who was nice to me? The family's cook, Marietta._

 _I called her 'Nona' because she was too old to be called 'Mama'._

 _Nona was my only friend. She never got around to marrying anybody, so she had no children or grandchildren. I was her daughter, she said._

 _We bonded over mutual distaste for my parents. If fact, she called me 'Gemma' (instead of the name my parents gave me)._

 _I asked he about that name, when I was eight._

 _"Your silly parents should not have thrown you away like that, banishing you to the kitchens. Like a plain piece of stone hiding a gem inside, they would've seen how wonderful you are if they only gave you time. So I named you after the glittering diamond of a heart you have," she explained._

 _Decades later, when I thought about that conversation, I realized it sounded quite silly. To my eight-year-old ears, however, it was a lovely thought. One of the reasons I despised formal education was that my expensively educated 'family' hadn't thought of all the clever things Nona said (and she could barely read0_

 _One day, I overheard the cook talking to one of her helpers._

 _"Yes, yes. You can go to the festivals. Just be sure to be back before midnight, or the mistress will have both our heads!"_

 _The young servant scurried out of the kitchen, no doubt to join in some kind of celebration._

 _"Nona?" I said, stepping out of my hiding place._

 _At the timid sound of my voice, the cook turned around. "What is it, dear?"_

 _Of all the people who lived there, only the grandmotherly cook (who I referred to as 'Nona') paid attention to me. If it weren't for her I might've starved._

 _"What festival were you talking about?"_

 _She smiled kindly. "It's called the carnival. For a week, once every year, people dress up and go out celebrating. When I was a child I had so much fun."_

 _"Can I go celebrating?"_

 _"I suppose so... If the mistress doesn't find out, I think you'll be fine."_

 _Without further ado, she took me to her room. She had a box full of fancy clothes that hadn't been worn since long ago. Garishly colors, decadent fabrics..._

 _"Here's something," she said, taking something out of the box._

 _It was bright red and glittered with sequins: a mask._

 _"This is pretty. We can replace your veil with this."_

 _My horrid features distorted into a smile. "Forever? Replace the veil forever?"_

 _The veil I wore was just a piece of black crepe that hid my face from everyone else's eyes, but allowed me to see well enough._

 _When I looked in the mirror after Nona had helped me put on the mask, I couldn't believe my eyes. The person who looked back wasn't a monster. She was beautiful… scarlet brocade adorned with glistening jewels._

 _I hugged Nona. "Thank you, thank you so much."_

 _She chuckled. "I haven't even taken you to the celebrations yet, though you thank me?"_

 _After that, I replaced the raggedy grey dress I wore with an extravagant red gown. Nona had to pin it in a few places, though the matching cloak hid that._

 _That night I saw colors bursting in the sky. I saw so many people, all hiding their faces beneath a different mask. It was so beautiful._

 _But the most amazing part was the sound. Not only joyous laughter… a new sound. It wasn't human... It was better than human. I'd never heard such a sound before, nor would I allow myself to live without it._

 _Music._

 _From almost every building the intoxicating sounds seeped. People danced in the streets to the sound of a hundred songs spinning into one crazed tune. Greatest of all, I looked exactly like everyone else!_

 _I wasn't Ugly-Face that evening. I wasn't the Demon-Child, or a monster. I was Red Brocade and Pretty Jewels._

 _For the remainder of the week, I spent my evenings wandering through the madness. I loved this world of fantastic deceit. Never did I forget the thunderous boom of fireworks, the color, and the music…_

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	4. Backstage

**Disclaimer: Since this book is public domain, everyone owns to some extent it. Though I still credit good ol' Leroux with the basic idea of it all.**

 **A/N: Now we meet the ballet girls and some backstage workers. One of the girls is Christine, so I suppose it is partly based on the musical. There's also a very nasty OC named Sawyer who clearly doesn't speak French well. He'll probably be a minor villain later.  
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Much to my delight, I got a letter from the new managers the very next day!

A little while ago I'd installed a letter-receiving system. To deliver a letter to me, dear old (or anyone, actually) leaves said letter in a cubby hidden near the door of my private box. After I cause the bottom of the shelf to temporarily 'disappear', the letter goes spinning down convenient little chute and right onto my living room table!

Old Mr. Poligny never figured it out. The new managers seemed equally dim-witted, so that trend should continue. I have a feeling Mrs. Giry might've realized something, but the promise of a percentage of my salary (alibi a small one) kept her from ratting me out.

I decided to actually _read_ the letter later. I like to go on a nice stroll everyday. Patrolling my opera house is a hobby of mine.

So I placed the envelope on my desk, quickly checked my mask in the mirror, and then left my house.

Many of my ground-floor secret hallways have a special sort of wall I designed. They're made of clear glass; though appear to be normal walls when seen from one side (thanks to the wallpaper that covers them). Since my hallways are dark and the backstage areas are light, I can see _at least_ the silhouettes of anyone in those rooms.

I've got a wonderful memory for voices, which (coupled with knowing the basic outline of many people), makes it easy to tell who's talking. Some days I'll just walk around and barely listen. Other days I stop and eavesdrop on entire conversations.

 _That_ day I stopped and listened by the main ballet rehearsal room. A few of the girls still seemed quite wound up over my appearance yesterday.

I knew the names of all girls, the most talkative of the ballerinas. Lisette, Meg, Adelaide, and Christine.

"Did you hear Carlotta ranting earlier? Old Poligny probably considers himself lucky, being so damn far from those diva tantrums 'Miss Perfectness' used to throw," said the ballet girl named Lisette.

She appeared to be smoking a cigarette. A nasty habit for a nasty person…

"Why don't you just leave, too?' asked Adelaide, the shortest _and_ the youngest.

Lisette chuckled. "I can't quit this job 'cause it's hard to get a new job in show biz. And this is only business where a girl can smoke without being told off by somebody."

"This isn't a seedy Cabaret, Lisette. Only _those_ kinds of girls can smoke without looking stupid or getting yelled at," said Meg coolly.

"Mina, did you _seriously_ compare me to a sleazy show girl?"

"Of _course_ not! I merely meant you shouldn't smoke all the time like that. Ballet girls are supposed to be elegant and stylish. Just because you work in a branch of the theatre business doesn't mean you should adopt stereotypes" Meg replied brightly.

"C'mon, this _isn't_ funny…" Christine muttered to Meg.

Oh, silly old Carlotta. She's officially the opera house's lead soprano, a problem I've never yet managed to remedy. I'd been hinting to Mr. Poligny that she needed to be fired, but everyone's to afraid of upsetting her for some reason. If it weren't for her sole redeeming quality (a nice singing voice), I would've disposed of her long ago.

"I wonder if the Ghost is listening," Adelaide whispered suddenly. "He probably doesn't like hearing us argue. We don't want to upset him!"

What a sweet little girl! It's nice when people are concerned about the feelings of others. I _LIKED_ this young person! Much better than Lisette, the bratty chain-smoking ballerina…

Alas, their conversation appeared to be over. With delicate silence I walked down my hallways until I found myself next to the carpenter's room. That's where backstage workers build set pieces and props.

"-an' did ya 'ear? Just before th' ol' Mister Man'ger left, Sir Phantom made ev'ryone jump by show 'en up a' the goaway party. Ya see, th'-"

Ah, _right._ A nasty young man (17 years and 4 ½ months, to be exact), known only as 'Sawyer', worked there. That little freak a brown mop-like hairstyle that always stuck out all different directions and a face with so much acne that you could hardly see his skin (which was nearly the _exact_ color of half-melted snow a dog had pissed in). Judging by his bizarre manner of speaking, he did not know how to properly speak the language he has spoken his _entire_ life. And all he did all day was talk. Talk. _TALK_.

The poor backstage supervisor appeared to be listening, judging by the way he nodded slightly at every pause in the monologue.

I suddenly caught that little bastard (this is a rare time when that word applies both literally _and_ figuratively) saying something _revolting_.

"Yea, 'alf th' reason ay works 'ere is tha' th're's all them pre- _e_ -tty ballet girls runnin' about th' place. This'is the one an' only place eh get ta see tha' much of eh skinny girly's skin fer free any'ere else."

"I-i-is that so?" replied the backstage supervisor, his face turning slightly red.

"O' corse et is! Ay can bar'ly afford ter eat, so ay never get to see 'em pro'er whores, ya knows! An' them ballet girls 'r more innocent tha' most wo'en these days. Thinkin' of them vir-chew-ous girlies is much be'er than thinkin' o' slutty ones."

I resisted the urge to gag in absolute disgust. The next time someone needs to die in order to prove a point, I decided, that person would _definitely_ be Sawyer.

Still burning with hatred, I made my way back to my house.

I needed to read the letter they'd sent! Hopefully they wouldn't want to pay my salary. That would mean I could get to play a few rounds of 'Annoy-the-Managers' until they gave in. Since hardly anyone believes in ghosts, they can't turn to policemen to stop me!

Anyway, this is _Opera_ … like war, but more attractive! And with fashionable clothes and pretty singing.

When I got back to my living room, I sat down at my desk and opened the envelope with one of my bloodstained daggers (I've got quite a collection). I can't remember _whose_ blood was on this one, so I use it for letter opening. The rest are labeled by whom I stabbed with it.

I began to read the letter. It _started_ properly enough…

 _To The So-Called Ghost:_

 _We both agree that 1868 Euros is a large sum (and a very random one). Since our budget barely includes enough money for many basic needs, we'd prefer if we could lessen that amount. You must have a kind enough heart to spare us enough for the hundreds of shoes the corps de ballet go through!_

 _Also, we would prefer it if neither of us were referred to as 'sissy' or 'girly' in public. As a deal of sorts, you may privately call us things like that if you swear not to 'creatively murder' either of us._

 _Let's get back to the issue of money. We'll pay your salary, without further question. You'll get your 1868 Euros every month as usual. Neither of us wants any trouble._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Mr. Armand and Mr. Firmin_

…But ended all wrong!

They weren't supposed to agree right away. Now I'd lost the chance to play a favorite game _and_ an excuse to kill Sawyer.

"Are you alright?" said Yorick, his empty eye sockets staring at me in concern.

"Of course not!" I told the skull. "I missed out on a great chance to kill somebody who really deserved it. Those new managers agreed to pay my salary right away, so we don't get to have any fun."

"Aren't there other fun things to do?" he replied.

I rolled my eyes. "You can only eavesdrop on the ballet girls for so long without tiring of their pointless chattering. _And_ I can smell Lisette's dreadful addiction to cigarettes from miles away. Anyway, I only listen to their conversations for news and to see if my reputation as a terrifying specter is being properly upheld. "

"I'm sure it is, Ms. Ghost. Nobody's come looking for you house, not even that lady who runs errands."

"Nobody suspects that I'm alive. Wonderful!"

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	5. Flashback: The Cruel Winter

**Disclaimer: Since this book is public domain, everyone owns it to some extent it. Though I still credit good ol' Leroux with the basic idea of it all.**

 **A/N: Here's another flashback. It should be interesting. At this point I'll admit I began this a while ago and just worked up the nerve to post it this evening. As I've said, I don't know too much about this fandom. Though I have read the book more than once...  
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 _My head felt light after all the running. I could barely see in the darkness._

 _Even though glittering snow blanketed the ground the lack of moonlight in hid me. As did the permanently borrowed cloak I wore over my tattered clothes._

 _Shivering in the crisp late-November air, I hid amidst the trees. Though the gloom I could see the chase had ended. Hopefully they would decide by morning that the cold had killed me._

 _Anyway, the count had more pressing matters._

 _His wife had gone into labor only hours ago. One thief wasn't more important than family to such a man._

 _I spat in disgust. Family!_

 _A terrible word…_

 _With a shudder, I collapsed into the snow, the beautiful diamond necklace still held tightly in my hands. Leaning against a tree, I began to fall asleep. All that running had made me so very tired..._

 _My bare feet felt funny, but I foolishly ignored this. Moments spent not running were precious indeed. I fell into a strange sleep._

 _Sometime later I awoke to an unfamiliar voice._

 _"What are you doing, Aleksandra? We can't stop now, we've got to set up camp where we said we would."_

 _The voice was a man's, strangely accented to my uncultured ears._

 _"Isn't helping injured people considered a good thing?"_

 _This voice was softer, kinder... But also accented._

 _I blinked slowly._

 _In front of me stood a young woman, looking very worried. Her kind face reminded me of Nona soon before her terrible death._

 _"Aleksandra! Stupid child! The girl isn't injured, she's dead!"_

 _"Don't say that, she still breathing."_

 _"I'm cold," I_ tried _to say._

 _The person called Aleksandra picked me. I must've fainted, for the next thing I saw was the inside of a tent. I tried sitting up, but Aleksandra stopped me._

 _"You need to rest, child."_

 _"Where am I?" I asked._

 _She took a deep breath. "In a tent that I live in. Technically it belongs to Mr. Henrik, who is rather angry with me now. You should be glad he's in a good enough state of mind to not leave you to freeze. Oh, speaking of Henrik, he wanted me to ask you some questions. Mainly you're name and why you were sitting half-frozen in a forest."_

 _The young woman seemed so very nice… but I couldn't bring myself to tell her my name. I'd sworn to myself never to use the name 'Gemma' ever again. With Nona dead that part of me was dead, too. The name that Lord Malvolio and Lady Lavinia gave me wouldn't work either…_

 _"You won't say your name, eh? I can call you by a nickname. Hmmm… we found you freezing in the snow. How about 'Icy'?"_

 _At that I laughed a real, proper laugh._

 _The young woman laughed, too. "Not 'Icy'. Hmmm, would you like to be named 'Snow'? There's an old fairy tale about a beautiful young lady named 'Snow', so at least we know it's a proper name!"_

 _A beautiful young lady? How unlike me!_

 _"Snow," I repeated, testing the sound of it." That's a nice name."_

 _"Wonderful! My name is Aleksandra, by the way."_

 _I remembered a lesson I'd overheard the nanny teach Lady Lavinia's daughters. What to say when greeting people…_

 _"Good to meet you, Aleksandra," I said._

 _We sat there silently for a moment. Looking around, I studied the inside of the tent. Most interesting of all was the many books around. I didn't know how to read anything more complex than signs at a market._

 _"Are you going to tell me about yourself?" asked Aleksandra. "I wish to learn why you were where you were when we found you."_

 _"People were chasing me after I took a diamond necklace from the Countess's mansion. I'd managed to get_ into _the place fine, but I must've triggered an alarm on the way out. I've still got the necklace."_

 _I held out my hand to show her… but the necklace wasn't there. "It's gone!"_

 _An expression of worry and confusion appeared on her face. "What would you want with a diamond necklace, anyway? You don't seem the sort of kid who cares about fashion."_

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	6. First Lesson

**Disclaimer: Since this book is public domain, everyone owns it to some extent it. Though I still credit good ol' Leroux with the basic idea of it all.**

 **A/N: Now things are getting a bit silly. I hope somebody voluenteers to help me edit this, if it annoys people. I'm not sure how much it should resemble the novel!  
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Since Christine and Meg share a dressing room, I knew I had to wait until the latter wasn't there. Luckily, only three days after the new managers showed up, Meg was home with a bad cold.

After that night's show I decided to talk to Christine privately.

Like any well-mannered person, I didn't make my presence known until she'd finished changing into her daytime outfit. Nobody wants to learn to sing while still wearing her ballet clothes or in a dressing gown.

"Er… Hello Christine Leroux," I said in my most ominous voice.

The girl jumped at the sound of my voice. "Holy _shit_! If that's you playing a joke, Lisette Gumm, I'll send Miss Emma after you!"

"You think I'm Lisette? I'm _nothing_ like that idiotic chain-smoker. No, you're speaking to the Opera Ghost."

"Oh."

A brief, yet awkward, silence fell over the both of us.

Christine spoke first. "Mr. Ghost? Um, what're you doing here?"

"I'd like to have a meeting over tea and biscuits. If you'd rather not go, I've got a new trap that needs testing."

"Right…"

Like every dressing room, its full-length mirror was secretly a revolving door that could only be activated from my hallway.

With a 'click' the mirror-door suddenly spun on its axis. I stood only _slightly_ in the shadow, so that she could mostly see me. Christine's blue eyes widened in shock. The mirror trick must've really impressed her!

After a moment of stuttering she found her voice. "You're a _girl_?"

"Not _really._ "

"You're a cross dresser?"

"No, no. Can't you tell I'm wearing a skirt?"

"But… if you aren't a girl…?"

"I'm a woman. A 'girl' is a younger version of a 'woman'. _You_ are a girl."

As I led her into my hallways, she didn't speak (save for a few curses when she hit her toe on the doorway).

Judging by the peculiar radish color her face had turned, she was enraged. I couldn't fathom why! I'd kept my lamp lit.

Christine still hadn't spoken after we'd crossed the sewer-river. Strangely, she had an expression of disappointment on her face. Ignoring that, I showed her into my living room.

"You have a seat on the couch. I'll go boil some water, and then we can get to know each other over some _nice_ hot tea and shortbread biscuits," I told her.

As I began to leave, I noticed that she still stood. "Sit down, dear. You won't be able to leave until I show you out. I've invented an alarm system to alert me if you try to leave. It saves me the trouble of trying to watch you _and_ make tea at the same time."

She sat down on the couch and I walked into the kitchen. After looking through a hidden-window to make sure she hadn't moved, I filled the kettle with water. Humming cheerfully to myself, I placed the now-filled kettle on top of the stove. I _carefully_ lit the fire… then returned to the living room.

"You're not usually so quiet, Christine. What's wrong?"

"Don't address me by my first name. Call me Miss Leroux, if we must speak at all!" She sounded rather upset.

"What's wrong, Miss Leroux?"

"What the hell do you mean by _that_? Everything is wrong! Not only have I been kidnapped, my kidnapper isn't the right kind of kidnapper! If a mysterious person kidnaps a ballerina from her dressing room, the mysterious person should be a man!"

I stared at the girl in strange fascination. "Why?"

"Because there're things women look silly doing."

"Aren't people starting to protest for equality? I think I overheard some of the other ballet girls talking about it. Anarchists in England and such…"

Christine scowled at me. "The idea of more people being able to vote is unrelated. This is a matter of style. For example, a guy couldn't wear this outfit I'm wearing. It isn't suitable!"

I looked at her clothes. She wore a light colored frilly Poligny down shirt and a long, navy blue pleated skirt. Because of the way she sat, I couldn't see her shoes.

"With a few tailor's alterations he could wear your outfit."

Peculiarly, she became even angrier with me. "What do you want with me? I should've left already, and Mrs. Giry might think I went home with one of the backstage boys!"

"Did you just say 'Mrs. Giry'?" I asked, suddenly confused.

"Why, yes. Alexandrine Giry adopted me when Father died of consumption ten years ago. The poor dear didn't have any children of her own, thanks to her husband's untimely demise. Do you know her?"

I smiled brightly. Though my Pretty-Face didn't show it, my tone of voice did. "Of _course_ I know her! She's the usher in charge of my box at the theatre. She's also a crucial part of my personal postal service."

Christine stared at me. "Er, right."

Suddenly I heard the unmistakable shriek of the kettle. I ran into the kitchen and, with the help of an oven mitt, moved the burning hot kettle off the heat. I poured the hot water into a pretty antique teapot, on top of a teabag.

After setting out some shortbread biscuits and two teacups on a tray, I went back into the living room. Good little Christine still sat on the couch.

"Do you have any sugar?" asked Christine, as I poured her tea.

"No. I'm quite sorry."

"Oh." She didn't drink any tea, but _did_ begin ravenously consuming a biscuit.

I sat down in a nearby chair and watched her gobble down more and more shortbread. "I thought you ballerinas ate nearly nothing."

"Only because the dance instructor monitors our diets. Every Wednesday she checks up with each girl's mum to make sure nobody's had any sweets. Oh, what I wouldn't give for a box of chocolate truffles!"

That reminded me of my true purpose for inviting her to tea. As a little project, I wanted to turn her into the new star. I'd get something to do when I couldn't play Annoying-the-Managers _and_ that idiot Carlotta would be replaced.

"Christine, I'd like you to know I didn't invite you here to eat shortbread and drink tea. I really just wanted to ask you if you want me to give you music lessons. You have the potential to be a great Prima Donna. If you work hard enough, astonishing things will happen. Wealthy bachelors will come from far and wide to try and court you. Adoring fans will present you with bouquets of fresh roses and boxes of chocolate-"

"What kind of chocolate?"

"Any sort, I suppose," I said. "And if you are a celebrated soprano you don't have to listen to that silly ballet choreographer."

"You'll really teach me to sing well enough that rich strangers will buy me chocolate?"

"Yes. Every evening, except on Sundays, you'll be here learning to sing like an angel of music. I'll fetch you from your dressing room like I did today."

"Great! I'll tell Mrs. Giry I'll be staying late for private tutoring from now on. She won't mind, I'm sure," replied the girl cheerfully.

What a sweet thing. She trusted me right away- like _any_ civil person would! As the Opera Ghost, protector of all nice employees of the opera house, I know exactly how to make any troubles go away. Most of the fools who work here hardly seem grateful for all I do.

I sat down at the piano and we began our lesson.

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